I’m fucking hate resistance band and I’m not wrong

I knew this day would come. I knew there would come a time when resistance bands would keep their promises and rise up against mankind. That time has come.

“Only baseball!” It has any number! Injuries occur on an annual basis. A relief jug broke his hand in a milk carton punch. A catcher suffered a massive stab wound to the thigh after accidentally walking in a forklift. Philly breaks his leg while dry-humping while playing fanatics. Most of these injuries occur in spring training and most of them are bad camouflage cover stories for players who hit themselves while shitface.

But in the case of Jonathan Wheeler, the Cubs’ second baseman, I really believe a resistance band attacked him. I can now see the image of the attack. I can imagine Wheeler, under the direction of his personal trainer, doing some horrible, failure workouts when the band slips out of his hands and oh snap! The band forces him to endure “significant dental work”, giving him lashes in the face; The details of which, at this moment, have been left to my cruel imagination. Maybe the band lost some of its teeth. Maybe his jaw is broken. Maybe it became sensitive, wrapped around the uvula at the back of his neck and tore at the roots. All of these things are possible, and you know why? Because the resistance band is the worst, so.

If you have no history with resistance bands then consider yourself lucky. Because most of us are forced to count with them in the instructor’s room, or in the workout class or during the physical therapy sessions. A resistance band is a simple, terrifying thing: a greasy ribbon of latex that looks like something you want to buy at a clothing store to make your own balloons. Physical therapists often give me resistance bands for free, probably because, like a copy of it. Helter Skelter, They want to keep themselves away from the hexing power within themselves. I have been ordered to stretch these bands across my chest; Wrapping them around my legs like a failed tourniquet and wrapping them around each of my arms, was taken as far away as a blood pressure test. I had to sit on a yoga ball — yet another simple machine that firmly belongs to the “sex toys for adventurer” genre এবং and had to do tedious exercises after tiring exercises because the resistance band tore the hair out of my hands. I did not feel any pleasure after doing this exercise. I didn’t feel strong or fresh. I feel abused. Abuse by this… this banal Judas Cradle. This is unfinished prophylactic. This monochromatic embodiment of Tom Brady’s whole personality.

I know that resistance bands can be effective. I know these are the ultimate consequences of a personal-training revolution that long ago avoided the bench press — which is still great, and everyone who has seen you want to have sex with you জন endlessly weighing in on negative things with lighters, and often without any weight. That’s how you end up tying these hellish scarves to the surrounding bars for professional athletes and other older adults, and twisting and shaking their way to the Callisthenic superiority.

But it’s embarrassing, childish nonsense, and I hate it. At least some significant days to work with me. Let me drag an anchor across an active freeway. Give me a polished barbell that will tear the palm of my hand so that there is extra norling in the grip. Give me a stack of Nautilus machine weights that I can move up and down, like I’m a one-man steel mill. Kettle Bell! Yes, give me all the kettle bells. Show me that I am working in a prison. Give me something I like. Don’t give me a shred of the dusty packing material in the corn starch and hopefully I’ll be happy with it. There is no touching pleasure in this band. There’s only pain, and not the kind of funny macho. No one is happy working with resistance bands, and anyone who likes them is mentally ill and should be expelled quickly.

And yet, bands are expanding, like their ugly siblings, the resistance cord. You will never enter a gym এমনকি not even a hotel gym! Just as a shoe box can be anything to a sporty child, a resistance band can be anything to a fitness guru who hates the idea of ​​people looking calm when toning their laces and glutes. Jonathan Wheeler and his ailing Pihole have just learned what these things are capable of. We must obey this sign. We must destroy our resistance band before they can destroy us, and whatever we cherish.

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